LUNCHES MAKE ME CRINGE: The search for healthier lunches on a budget

By Becky Brownstein 

Becky Brownstein is a  wife, mother of five, cleaning lady, chef, program/trip organizer, taxi driver, blogger and all around great gal that lives in Kingston, Pennsylvania. Visit her website at http://spitsgiggles.blogspot.com where she shares all her experiences as a mother with the motto, "When all else fails, laugh!" 

LUNCHES MAKE ME CRINGE: 
The search for healthier lunches on a budget
(+ 4 lunch ideas you should try!)

Lunches. Uch... Just the word alone makes me cringe. It’s the last chore of the night (on a good night) and it’s the hardest. Especially when the cupboards are running low. As soon as you start chucking cereal in a bag, you know it’s time to go to the store.

Last school year I made it my own “Mother-Mission” to make healthier lunches without going over my food budget. I also wanted to get rid of the guilt of spending money on baggies that just get tossed out without a second glance. When I keep to a budget, I have to keep everything in mind. With my budget in mind and with the idea of not over-using baggies, I set out to look for a reusable container that would make that possible.

I found these sectioned ziploc containers.

They held up for a few months so I had to replace them in the middle of the year plus, they leaked. A lot. I spent a lot of time saran wrapping the apple sauce inside one of the sections. But it still didn’t cost as much as an actual apple sauce to go cup. Plus, it was one container to clean and it was durable. But the con’s outweighed the pro’s, so this school year I set out to spend a little more money and get something better.

I found this Rubbermaid lunchblox kit.

That blue thing in the middle is an ice pack. They are durable, easily washable, sparkle when they are clean and look really cute. The kids like them better since they can grab one container to take out to recess.  A few of the con’s are It’s easier for the kids to lose lids or misplace them.

The lids also have potential to get yucky stuff trapped so you have to make sure to clean those out well. I also have so many little containers to wash. But it beats saran wrapping. I fill up a sink tub with hot soapy water and either me or the kids will chuck the containers inside.

I mainly use the Lunchblox kit for the fresh fruit and vegetables. I use smaller ziploc containers for the carb snacks. I have 1 box of sandwich baggies for the times I must use them (usually for half a cucumber or tomato), or the times my kids ask for extra snacks, but other than those few times, I don’t use them.

When making lunches I try to think of healthy foods that I know my kids will like, not what I hope they’ll like. I usually ask them “will you guys eat green beans if they were in your lunch?” Either they will answer excitedly or look at me like I was insane and yell “no way!” I also try to keep things the same for everyone. If I know all the kids will eat grapes, I’ll put grapes. But if two kids don’t like bananas, I won’t put bananas at all. But if it’s only one kid who has an aversion to that specific food I’ll make an exception. If I had to make different things for everyone, it would make things really hard for me. Plus, there is a greater chance for mess ups.

One time my daughter came home with two full containers of applesauce and said to me “I don’t even like applesauce!” Shortly after, my husband came home and said “I would like to speak with your quality control department please.” He came home with one full container of grapes. He ate the other. So yeah, mess ups happen. Especially because it’s the last chore of the night. Don’t judge!

Now the fun part!

LUNCH #1

For the main dish I made flat bread (easiest and quickest to make when I didn’t have a chance to get bread) with a small cup of jelly for dipping. Next to that is homemade granola that the kids LOVED. Then it’s cut up baby carrots, applesauce and cut up watermelon.


LUNCH #2

The main dish is tomato, cucumber and lettuce sandwich with a a little bit of mayo. The sides are dried fruit and nuts, pickles, deviled eggs, pretzels and a clementine or half an apple.

LUNCH #3

The main dish is a pizza pocket. (I take frozen dinner rolls out while I make dinner and let them defrost/rise until I am ready to make lunches. I then shape them into round circles, add sauce, cheese and mushrooms or olives and bake.) The sides are edamame beans, applesauce, grapes and corn chips.


Lunch #4 

The main dish is a cream cheese sandwich. Not that exciting but the kids could eat those every day. The sides are sugar snap peas, cantaloupe (one is kiwi since my oldest hates cantaloupe) dried fruit and nuts and homemade date bars. (It was my first attempt at these whole wheat bars and I had to agree with my kids that they sucked. I will not be making those again.)

These are just a few examples. I juggle things around, switch around the vegetable options and try to pick things my kids will like. I am not a dietician or a crazy health nut. I just know my kids and know their reaction to overloads of sugar. They crash. Big time! Plus, if I give them sweets as snacks, they are hungry not even an hour later and come home with crazy stomach pains. I used to send them with store bought granola bars but they didn’t feel well after. 

After starting to make lunches like these, my kids have been coming home with empty containers and started requesting healthy snacks first when they are home without even realizing it. Because of that I don’t buy a lot of the snacks I used to. It’s a lot healthier and makes them a lot happier. Sugar treats have become just that, treats.

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Fun City, a brand-new family fun center designed to cater to the wide age-range and diverse entertainment interests of the modern family, features a variety of fun family experiences including: MagiQuest, mini golf, laser tag, bumper cars, party rooms and a Kosher Snack Bar. Group events and birthday party packages are also available. For more information, visit www.funcityny.com.

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To Have a Sister

TO HAVE A SISTER

In Honor of National Sister's Day, August 1st

"At the wedding, Mushky wept like a baby and danced like a nut."

My relationship with my sister got off to a bad start. As an only girl with five brothers, I had spent months awaiting my mother’s birth, praying for a sister. It was the first pregnancy that I had been cognitive enough to realize my mother was expecting and, let’s just say, my hopes and dreams were no secret. Perhaps if I had a sister, I would have more solid defense when my brothers wanted to wreak havoc on my dolls and it would certainly mean one more female to reckon with when playtime debates were whether to wrestle or play basketball. Never mind the fact that I deeply felt I could use a companion to share the brunt of my mother subjecting me to an overabundance of pink and bows (which totally backfired, by the way).

My Wife Needs a Vacation (COLlive.com)

This is a wonderful response from marriage counselor Daniel Schonbuch to a husband whose wife wants to vacation but they have a limited budget!

http://www.collive.com/show_news.rtx?id=10173&alias=my-wife-wants-a-vacation

Becky's Bottom Line: Acculturation and Assimilation

Becky's Bottom Line

By Becky Brownstein 

ACCULTURATION AND ASSIMILATION

While my kids are young and are still trying to listen to and explore their surroundings, it often makes me think about the times long ago when explorers were still discovering the world. These explorers docked their boats on foreign land to discover. They didn’t know what it was they were discovering, but they wanted to discover. Y’know, totally cool with me since I am no historian and doodled my way through history class. I am going to assume that they hopped off their boats and started learning new things to bring back to their own lands. I assume this from the fact that we all have popcorn thanks to the Native Americans and tea from Boston. Also from the phrase “when in Rome do as the Romans.” It had to come from somewhere.

Now that some of my kids have gotten a little older, watching the younger ones grow and adapt to their surroundings is quite entertaining. I’ll explain.

Happy Mom Tip #7: Matching Sole-Mates

Happy Mom Tips

By Rivka Caroline 

Happy Mom Tip #7

MATCHING SOLE-MATES 

Here's my advice for the week in two words : sock locks. If I could rewind my decades of laundry cycles and change one thing it would be the implementation of sock locks. I guesstimate I have wasted infinite time and dollars searching for the elusive "other sock." These nifty contraptions secure your sole-mates from laundry bin all the way through the dryer.  

They're a "must-have" for all those interested in ending sole searching!

Becky's Bottom Line: Fun or Destruction?

Becky's Bottom Line

By Becky Brownstein

 "Walls are just mass expanses of mural space."

FUN OR DESTRUCTION?

Kids break things. Kids ruin things. Kids touch what they shouldn't. Kids use their imaginations and turn diaper changing table pads into stair sleds. They also create forts out of every single blanket that’s folded neatly in the linen closet. Panty liners are money. Toilet paper  is used for a new age Hansel and Gretel game. Books are for practicing scissor skills. Pencils are meant to be broken and then sharpened over and over again. Walls are just mass expanses of mural space.


As a parent, I get angry. These are the things that I have bought with my own money (that my husband worked so hard to make) and took the time to make nice. All my hard work and planning can get ruined in exactly three seconds. I want to make rule after rule after rule to get the kids to stop touching what they shoudn’t, but it would only make the planning that much greater. They want to discover. I want them to discover, but I also don’t want my things ruined.

It’s a tug of war I have in my head all the time.

Becky's Bottom Line: Stress

Becky's Bottom Line

By Becky Brownstein

STRESS 

Stress. Something That Really Extra Specially Sucks. Stress. I carry my stress in my neck and shoulders. At the end of a stressful day I feel like I'm lugging around packages of super sized heavy weights around my neck and shoulders. I wind up with a massive headache and a bunch of kids all wanting to be be cleaned and fed. Don’t they realize I am stressed?!

Sometimes it feels like I'm the only stressed out person there is (I know I’m not).

One Favorite Thing

By Mimi Hecht 
 

One day in school when I was fourteen years old, I chose an alternative to doodling in class, opting instead for the more sophisticated task of transcribing a list of my favorite things. Ten years later, I unearthed the two page list, a revealing time capsule of my adolescent mind. Dated Monday May 24^th, 2000, the list included the following highlights:

Finishing a good book

Taking a nap in the middle of the day

Getting mail

Writing

A perfect hair day

Becky's Bottom Line: Mistakes Happen

Becky's Bottom Line

By Becky Brownstein

MISTAKES HAPPEN

After having a C-section with my first daughter I was unable to drive for at least six weeks. The fridge, freezer, and pantry suffered dearly through my recovery. They were running on empty. I needed a restock on all food related things. My first stop would be the Kosher store in Scranton, which had the majority of the things I needed. The drive is about a 25 minutes on the highway.The thrill of finally getting behind the wheel with my baby in the back seat was exhilarating. After putting together a baby bag with a million things I would probably never need, I went out to the car to deal with her car seat. I buckled in the base and snapped in her car seat, like I had seen so many others do. I then checked to make sure everything was secure with the car seat and that the level tool ball was in the right spot. Then I closed the door. I drove very cautiously with my precious cargo. When I finally pulled into the parking lot of the kosher store and got out to get my baby, I saw that I had never strapped her in! Her base was buckled in tight. Her car seat was snapped in, in the upright perfect position. But she was not buckled! I thought the police were for sure going to come screeching in and take me away.

That was only the beginning. Once, on a long trip, I gave my first daughter (yep, her again) a pushka (charity box) to play with in the car. She was crying and fidgeting so much that I had thoughtlessly handed her anything to keep her quiet. Pushkas are actually really dangerous for little baby fingers. She put her teeny tiny, unmarked, perfectly plump and pink finger right into the penny slot. She cut her finger right open. She probably would have needed a stitch (my doctor told me) if I didn't quickly squeeze her finger and apply a butterfly band aid. I had a whole pack of them in my first aid kit that I kept in my diaper bag. So much for useless junk. I still carry one for just that reason.

When we had justtwo little kids, the living room in our apartment was decked out with a couch and a coffee table. Now, the living room in our home is decked out with just a couch. I now see the coffee table as a big object with sharp corners waiting to poke a hole in some unsuspecting child's head. In that same living room I had a cart that stored all the diapers. I didn't want them upstairs because then I had to go up there for all the diaper changes. I had no shelving space or drawers downstairs to stick them in. I didn't want a bag of diapers just floating around the house. I wanted them to look neat and tidy stacked in a three-tiered cart that could roll around for my convenience. The top shelf was for diaper cream and wipes and the bottom two shelves were for the diapers. The diapers never stayed on the shelf. My daughter thought it was the most hysterical thing to dump the entire thing out. When I made a game out of cleaning them all up, the diapers wound up looking like a stack of the used variety. It wasn't neat anymore. And it definitly didn't look nice.

Fast forward a few years with some bumps, bruises, and scrapes. My kids moved on to cabinets and cabinet contents. No more are my feminine hygiene products safe. After giving birth to my fourth daughter, my oldest daughter introduced "store" to her siblings. In an attempt to use money in the "store" they searched the entire house for a currency to meet their standards. They found panty liners. I didn't realize until I noticed half the box was gone. I didn't know where they kept them. That is, until one day a friend came over to visit. I had just finished nursing the baby upstairs and put her to bed. I went to answer the knock at the door. It was then that I saw my three daughters with purses full of panty liners, lining a walkway from the front door to the dining room. They were ripping off the backing and sticking the liners onto the laminate floor with such precision that I almost didn't want to interrupt them because of the workmanship. But someone was at the door, right behind the panty liner pathway. I answered it and hoped that they would smile, wave, and leave. No such luck. She wanted to come in and see the baby. She had to step over panty liners to get into my house. She was so nice about it. She pretended to not even notice.

Now that my kids are out of the infancy stage I have other problems. I am a huge diet Dr. Pepper fan. I open a can and then go about my day. That's not the problem. The problem is by the time I get back to it, the can is almost empty. I have yet to be brave enough to swallow the last few gulps of little kid backwash. Last week, I left my brand new, texting-enabled cell phone on my nightstand. The next thing I knew it was being carried out of the toilet on life support. It did not survive it's waterlogged coma and I had to get a new one. My grocery lists don't survive if I leave them on the table within reach. Especially if there is a pen on the notepad waiting to be used. We have to lock our pantry so we don't have random children grabbing cereal bags and emptying the contents. (I think every single one of the kids had done this before we got the lock.) It took the need to move my bedroom furniture for Pesach cleaning to find my glasses that went missing a half a year before.

Bottom line is: Mistakes happen. Sometimes we get so caught up in the moment that we can't think clearly. Sleep deprivation and loss of brain cells don't really help at all either. But as mothers, we have the stamina to pick ourselves up, brush ourselves off, take note of the incident, and try our darndest to never let it happen again. Okay, so my kids also seem to be huge diet Dr. Pepper fans. They also like to make lists on my designated notepad. I don't have to brush myself off for those minor offenses, but at least I have learned where to keep the candy stash and where I need hide to finish the tub of ice cream.

Becky's Bottom Line: My Balagan

Becky's Bottom Line

By Becky Brownstein

 "My stomach was so ginormous with my fourth that people would 

stop on the street and ask me if my stomach was real."

MY BALAGAN

I have developed a theory. The first child is a change. Having a second child is an adjustment. Having a third child is an addition to the adjustment. Four is a crowd and five is a balagan (modern Hebrew, meaning "chaos" or "fiasco.") Past the balagan part are uncharted waters for me. For those superhero mothers who have passed five, I look up to you very highly.

Having my first child was a most wonderful occasion. I never wanted to let anyone else hold my baby. I wanted her all to myself. She was so perfect with her little nails and chubby arms and legs. Little did I know that I stunk, had blood shot eyes from no sleep, and an exorbitant amount of breast milk that refused to give me any relief. Let me explain a little more. My first daughter was born via an emergency C-section and was then rushed to an out of area hospital with a neonatal ICU. She had to stay there for five days. I was stuck in a hospital 20 miles away from her recovering from my Cesarean. It was pure agony. So I pumped my milk. I pumped every three hours. That's what they told me to do. When I was finally reunited with my baby I was so eager to get her to breastfeed! I was dying from pain. No one thought to tell me that newborns nurse for maybe TWO SECONDS!  I had so much milk! I couldn't leave the house from fear of springing a leak. But you have to stop and notice something here. That was my main concern. I didn't have any other children to take care of. I couldn't even think of leaving her in another room unattended while I bathed.

A little while later we were blessed with our second daughter. I was able to have a natural, peaceful birth with her. It was very magical. Then I went home. The magic disappeared. Laundering became my hobby as did wiping spit up with my socks and corralling a very  mischievous toddler. I had to figure out how to keep my toddler's already set schedule in place, while trying to figure out how to fit in my new baby's schedule. I also had to figure out how to keep everyone happy and rested. It was quite the adjustment and quite the tiring process. When I think back to those years, I don't remember sleeping a lot.

While I was in my ninth month with my third daughter, we bought a home. I realized the best time to move into a home is when the nesting hormone is in full swing. We were unpacked in about three weeks. I had also made a list of all the aesthetic adjustments our new residence would need, and listed them in order of importance. She was born beautiful and healthy. Another natural, peaceful birth. When I got home I wasn't overwhelmed. She was just an addition to the adjustment.  The schedule was set.  I fell right into the schedule and so did the baby. Well, kinda. She did have the cranky hour in the evenings.  But our new home came with an atrocious powder blue carpet all through the front rooms (this was priority one on the aesthetic list) that I would vacuum every night - she would hear the roar of the vacuum from her crib and fall asleep. If that didn't work, I'd rock her in the laundry room where she'd fall asleep from the hum of the hand-held vacuum still hanging on the wall. The older babies were already sleeping by then. I was okay to spend that vacuum time with her.

My fourth daughter was my biggest baby and the longest and hardest pregnancy and birth. She was due right before the summer, so my kids would be home for the majority of the hard newborn part. My stomach was so ginormous with her that people would stop on the street and ask me if my stomach was real. In my seventh month people would be like, “Any day now huh?” My reply would be, “Sorry buddy, three more months.” Nobody believed I would make it till my due date. When I would waddle through the corridor at my doctors office, everyone would rub my back and tell me I was doing great and was almost there. My birth with her started off peaceful and relaxed, until she got stuck coming out. I always envision her entrance into the world like a kid trying to pull on a shirt that's too small. The kid manages to get part of his face through the hole but gets majorly stuck because he prematurely stuck his shoulder in. His face is squished, looking out, his huge shoulder stuck right in there with it.  Needless to say my daughter's face was black and blue and GINORMOUS! The nurse called her a big blueberry. She weighed in at a whopping 10 lbs. 1 oz. Coming home with her has been blacked out from my mind. I assume for my own safety. Our minds are our own safety nets, so I assume it is for good reason. Carrying on.

My fifth child. G-d really made this time worth my while: I had a boy! The excitement of having variety made things so much better. Because my fourth daughter was so ginormous, and no one had a clue that her enormousness was going to happen, they were very strict on how far I could go with this pregnancy. I have a great relationship with my doctor and I was able to keep pushing deadline date. But, I could only push her off so long. I asked her “Why do you want to torture me with an induction?” Her response was, “I am torturing you?” She's great. Needless to say, it wasn't the most natural birth when it comes to how labor came about, but it was not a C-section either. Hey, I did have to keep my relationship with my doctor. Shes my ally when it comes to the whole giving birth thing.

Dealing with all five children is very very hard, especially when I had a newborn. I remember standing in my kitchen when I had only four children and I was on the phone with my sister. I think everyone kept coming over to me to report something. Like they spilled yogurt all over themselves, one sister is coloring on the wall with permanent marker, another sister is flushing too much toilet paper and so on. The point is, it was loud. And my sister said, “How do you handle it?” And I replied “I just laugh.” Some of the complaints are pretty funny. I wouldn't laugh in their face, but I would let out a chuckle here or there. Fast forward to having five children all being loud at the same time. I would call my sister and ask her “How am I going to handle this?” And she would reply, “Just laugh!” And she was right.

Bottom line is: Everything has to do with perception. Yes, I have a bunch of kids close in age. Yes, it is sometimes hard to deal with. Yes, it does feel like a balagan. But, this is the life I chose. These are the children I brought into the world to take care of. Sometimes putting on the rose colored glasses in the morning changes my day. It doesn't necessarily make it easier, but it changes the way I see things. And in changing the way I see things, it changes the way those things are handled. With the rose colored glasses, I envision myself as a construction worker buckling my tool belt before starting a job. I would never go to a job without a tool belt. I have to be prepared for the day ahead of me. That means anything can happen that day. I can't be afraid. And if that means my rose colored glasses make me see things in a comical way, I'll take it.

Becky's Bottom Line: Genetics

Becky's Bottom Line

By Becky Brownstein

 

 

 

GENETICS 

Genetics is a funny thing. Genes are almost a way for G-d to show us his sense of humor. Let me explain. I received my humor gene from my father. Don't get me wrong, my mother has a sense of humor too; just not the telling jokes kind. She knows how to laugh and when to laugh. But my father was a funny guy. I also got his hands and feet. That totally sucks since, y'know, he was a guy. Most of my life I never thought I got anything from my mother (except for her skin which I am grateful for) until I was going through child birth.

I went through the centuries old form of torture called back labor. Anyone who has had back labor knows what I mean when I say that I would rather run into a wall over and over and over again, than to have to endure back labor. I had it with all my kids. EVERY-SINGLE-ONE! Want to know why? Genetics. Hah!

When I was pregnant for the first time I experienced everything the books say you “might” experience. Morning sickness, bloating, sciatica, bursitis of the hips, stretch marks, insane weight gain, constant nose bleeds, the sprouting of varicose veins, and the inability to get comfortable for the ENTIRE ninth month. My mother? Never experienced any of those. After I gave birth and experienced the worst pain EVER, called back labor, I told my mother all about it. I told her that this jack hammer kept ramming into my lower back causing me to want to jump out a window, but knock myself out first so I won't feel the intolerable pain the entire way down. She smiled, let out a little laugh and said “Oh Becky, you got what I have. A posterior cervix.” (Sorry if saying “cervix” is making you uncomfortable, but we do have 'em). “Okay mom, so what you're telling me is that I am going to go through that every single time I have a baby?” “Yep. And so did I.” Talk about payback. “What if I just apologize right now for all my craziness? Doesn't that help? Will my stretch marks disappear?”

I'm not even going to mention the fact – OK, I'll mention the fact – that my blood type is Rh negative, thanks to my loving mom. Since my husband's blood is Rh positive I have to get injections every time I am pregnant. I have to have them just in case the baby I am carrying has positive blood. If the baby I am carrying does in fact have positive blood, my body could attack the baby as a foreign substance. After giving birth, my babies have their Rh factor checked, and if they are positive I have to have yet another injection. But just as a precaution. Guess what? Every single one of my children have been positive. Yipee. Did I mention I hate shots?

Of all the things I could have had, G-d had to pass on the torture gene and the absence of the Rh factor. Of course, since y'know, G-d is way smarter than I am, I won't challenge Him. He does have a plan and I am sure there is a reason. I am hoping there is a reason. But because of my rational thinking, I started to realize the genetics that come into play with my own children. They are all Rh positive and the majority of them are girls. They don't have to worry about that when they have their own babies. But the posterior cervix....

Along the genetic line their personality traits come into play. My kids are all jokesters. They laugh hysterically at anything. I love it. I love that they can be goofy and funny and laugh at their own mistakes. I love how my second daughter has my husbands feet. It's one of the distinct features that connects them. I love how my son has my hands and feet, but looks just like his father. They each have a feature that is a distinct trait that connects them to us, but makes them into their own person. It is these features that we share with them that makes them into the special individuals that we love so much. All their personalities are intertwined because they came from the same parents, but it's their individuality that makes them each special to us and those around them.

Bottom line is: We get what we get and we don't get upset. We are who we are. My children have some of the same traits that I have judged myself so harshly over, like being short or not having elegant hands. These traits are what link us together. My traits don't seam so bad when I see my own children, who I love dearly, with those same traits I despised so much. And I know for myself, it molds them into who they are and makes me appreciate what it is we both share.

Come back to LadyMama every week for Becky's hilarious and candid take on being a mother of five! Read more about Becky on the author page.

Becky's Bottom Line: Superheroes, Soldiers and Mothers

Becky's Bottom Line

By Becky Brownstein

 

Superheroes, Soldiers and Mothers

Someone asked me recently to tell them of an experience that made me believe in my prowess as a mom. My first thought was, “Huh? Prowess? What's a prowess?” Being that I watched the movie “Seven” with a dictionary when I was 15, I decided to rely once again on Webster.

Main Entry: prow·ess

Pronunciation: \ˈprau̇-əs also ˈprō-\

Function: noun

Etymology: Middle English prouesse, from Anglo-French pruesse, prowesse, from prou

Date: 13th century

1 : distinguished bravery; especially : military valor and skill
2 : extraordinary ability

Via: http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/prowess

After I read this definition, I realized how prowess describes not only soldiers and super heroes, but mothers as well. Let me break it down.

Distinguished Bravery:

·        I wipe butts. Not just my own bottom, my kids' butts. Not only do I wipe my own kids' butts, but if one of my children has a play date, I wipe someone else's kid's butt as well.

·        I use public germ infested bathrooms. Not for myself of course, but when my kid has to go, they have to go. Of course, I don't just let them park it; I have to somehow sanitize the place so my kid won't come home with some rare disease that I made up in my head.

·        I take car trips. Sometimes these car trips are excruciating, but we will all have a good time, darn-it, even if I have to pull over  untill the fighting stops.

·        I clean up vomit. There is nothing braver than cleaning vomit. It's worse than cleaning up raw egg that slipped off the counter.

·        I cut toenails, wipe noses and everything that goes along with that.

·        I change HORRENDOUS diapers.

·        I wake up every hour to breast feed when I have a newborn. I give up sleep! I give up my own restful hours to take care of my children...and sometimes my husband.

Do you know why? Because I am a mother. It's not even like we take a vow before we have kids. We have a marriage contract of course, but there is no contract binding us to wipe butts, boogers and lose sleep. We do it because we have distinguished bravery. Our children need us. And by golly, we sure need them.

Extraordinary Ability:

I used to think I had extraordinary ability because I can do that weird double jointed finger thing. I also thought I was extraordinary because I could touch my toes without bending my knees. Fast forward to now.

·        Now I have extraordinary ability because I can function as a semi normal member of society with a mere 4 hours of sleep.

·        My house can look not so put together – okay let's be honest, a total disaster zone – all week, but miraculously be all clean and put together for Shabbos. Now that is ability.

·        I make dinner every night. Ability.

·        I pushed out a 10 pound 1 oz. baby (yes, every ounce counts). Extraordinary ability.

·        And on and on and on…

Bottom line is, I am not alone in this. There are so many mothers, who have so much bravery and ability. It’s not one specific experience that makes us acknowledge our prowess as a mom; just the fact that we are mothers and that we took that unsaid vow after carrying, nurturing and then pushing out our babies, gives us the defining term “prowess” as a freebee. It comes with the package. Like one of those toys in the cereal box that everyone sticks their dirty hands in, to fish out. Some mothers have PROWESS and some have prowess, but we all have it. It’s that simple. “Distinguished bravery” and “extraordinary ability” just come with the name “Mommy."

 

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Come back to LadyMama every week for Becky's hilarious and candid take on being a mother of five! Read more about Becky on the author page.

One Favorite Thing

One day in school when I was fourteen years old, I chose an alternative to doodling in class, opting instead for the more sophisticated task of transcribing a list of my favorite things. This week, ten years later, I unearthed the two page list, a revealing time capsule of my adolescent mind. Dated Monday May 24^th, 2000, the list included the following highlights:

Finishing a good book

Taking a nap in the middle of the day
Getting mail

Writing

A perfect hair day

Knowing all the answers

Getting paid after babysitting

Having clothes in my closet with tags on them
Drinking cold water after exercising

Being made a fancy breakfast
A hot shower on a cold morning

Having just turned twenty four, and now married with a baby, I couldn’t help but let the discovery speak volumes about my life today. And as we approach Mother’s Day, the revelation was all too clear.

My how things change (and not just because a strong portion of the list had to do with sleeping)!Walking barefoot is now unsanitary, writing is no longer a hobby but a career and snail mail means bills, not a good read from a pen pal. My luxuriously naïve child mentality has transformed into an overprotective one-track mind void of any of life’s little treasures!

I thought it would be interesting to compose a more updated version of “Mimi’s Favorite Things.” I started churning out some notes: Hearing the baby laugh, going out with my husband, getting the high-chair all clean, rocking the baby to sleep – it was a list of everything and anything having to do with my family, treasuring the moments with my husband and child. Oh no, I thought. My luxuriously naïve child mentality has transformed into an overprotective one-track mind void of any of life’s little treasures!

Could motherhood have taken the place of an abundance of favorites? Has being a mother become my one favorite thing?

Ya, just go on and say it. It’s pathetic. Today’s list of my favorite things is not really a list at all but rather one overarching priority. Anything that falls under that umbrella of motherhood – from a walk in the park to a doctor’s visit – is now my most preferred and enjoyable activity.

One would think my life as a wife and mother has become more complicated and downtrodden with responsibilities - with no room for “favorite things.” But the truth is, there is nothing to mourn. Life has actually become simpler and a whole lot more rewarding by virtue of the fact that I know my guiding priority. No matter what our entire society will say about that, it’s a fact. And I will say it proudly. My natural and intuitive joy is my family, and just knowing that - and recognizing it with confidence, not embarrassment – has made life more pleasurable, worth more than a million favorites. Anything enjoyable beyond experiences with my family– like finishing a book or a perfect hair day - well, that’s just the icing on the beautiful, multi-flavored and oh-so-layered extra-fattening cake. And you know what? I get a deeper satisfaction from my happy family moments than I ever did from any “favorite things” when I was fourteen. As it turns out, it’s better to have one real big and important favorite thing than a two page list of small life-treats.

If you’re a mother, you know it’s true. You can’t have any “favorite things” if your family isn’t happy, healthy and – at the minimum – functioning. No matter what our enjoyable little fixes, once we make the foray into motherhood, it all comes down to our one favorite thing. And the sooner we accept this often unpopular attitude, the more we’ll enjoy the small things in life.

That being said, there are some things I could afford to reinstitute from my list – like sweating after a good exercise, getting paid for all my babysitting (I’d be a millionaires) and, of course, knowing all the answers.

Shema and Modeh Ani: A World of Difference

[ Just as important as a clean tushy are the milestones of morning and night ]

When you have a child, both that final thud in their crib that marks the day’s end and that morning cry that signals a new one are major events. Towards evening, we schedule bedtime and hurry around its chaos. Through the night, we wish we could push off the morning’s demands. Sunrise and sunset signal a baby’s peek hours of need. When they arise charged to live another day, they need a diaper change, feeding, outfitting and playing. Before they vulnerably submit to the night sky, they need attention, bathing, feeding and diapering (just change the orders, it’s all the same).

A few weeks ago, I was feeling like my life was a repetitious movie of wake-ups and put-to-sleeps. In the morning, I would be half sleeping and stumbling when I followed the sounds towards my son's cries. If it was a sleepless night, I would already look forward to getting more sleep that night. The day always passed too quickly and came nightfall, I would practically drift off with him during that ever-so-long feeding. When I plopped him down into his crib, I mentally wiped the day’s sweat off my forehead and started counting the sleep I was missing by not going to bed right away.

This is where the sweet melodies of Shema and Modeh Ani have come to my rescue.

My parents’ attention to saying Modeh Ani and Shema with us as kids is a sweet memory I was excited to replicate with my own kids. But in the early months of my son’s life, I have to admit I failed miserably. For a lot of poor excuses, and mostly just lack of truly caring, I am embarrassed to say that I left my son’s nights and mornings void of these cherished and pivotal Jewish rituals. Subconsciously, perhaps I didn’t realize how essential they could be in the life of a little baby that seemingly doesn’t understand much, certainly not the deep philosophical words of Shema or the appreciative prayer of Modeh Ani.

But my thinking, or lack thereof, was flawed. Every parent knows that melodies play an important role in a baby’s daily schedule and overall development – all the more so the important Jewish melodies that you hope to be a mainstay in your child’s life! If I didn’t start now, then when? How else would I imbue my child with these iconic Jewish practices? What better time to start offering the rewards of a day both started and ended in thanks?

Thankfully, my husband was making sure our son drifted to sleep and woke up with Shema and Modeh Ani. But it was time for me to start waking up to the responsibility. And when I did, I discovered another motive - something equally important to my sons healthy upbringing. I realized quickly that the Mimi that neglects to say Shema with her son and the Mimi that remembers are two different mothers. One is harried, tired and off somewhere in her brain while the other is calm, loving and completely present. One is rushed and selfish; the other is calm and giving. One is sleeping. One is awake.

Saying Shema and Modeh Ani out loud is now becoming essential to my normalcy as a mother. Just as important as a clean tushy are the milestones of morning and night. The sweet, meaningful prayers remind me that another day is starting and another has passed. It is a simple acknowledgment that means I am no longer sleeping through my son’s daily routines – I am honoring them. Certainly, I can still say Shema and Modeh Ani with a groggy mind, but it's a starting point that has set the bar a lot higher. It takes just a little more energy to properly reflect and segue into night and day, but it means a world of difference to my growing family.

My Big Fat Jewish Labor Party

"My labor was truly a shared experience..."

In the 50's, the decade my grandmother bore her children into the world, doctors sedated laboring women and put them in a laboring room, only to return when the baby was emerging and a pair of human hands was absolutely necessary. Mothers from her era remember little about birthing their children, especially the pain.

Fast-forward to the year 2009 and Grandma is horrified to see me in labor.

My water broke during the post-wedding weekend celebration of my eldest brother’s marriage. I was gossiping with my sister in a cozy hotel bed just two days before my due date when a gush of fluid began the process I was wholly unprepared for. Our hearts pumping, my husband and I called my midwives, who instructed me to labor comfortably at the hotel until the contractions were unbearable and timed close together.

News of my venture into labor quickly spread down the hotel corridors. My parents, siblings, aunts and uncles – and yes, grandmother - all came knocking to check up on me and experience a unique kind of family bonding. The room where I had lost my amniotic fluid became “My Big Fat Jewish Labor Party.”

For almost an entire day, I consciously labored with my family as witnesses. We talked about the baby, made family jokes and all got quiet when an aggressive contraction would require my full attention. As much as I wanted nothing more than to finally meet the child that had been gestating within me for way too long, I was having fun. My mother took the waning opportunity to gently stroke my belly while talking to the baby she was sure was a girl. My aunt, who was celebrating her birthday, rooted for me like an auditioning cheerleader. If the baby was born on her day, it would be the ultimate present. If born tomorrow, my child would share birthday cake with my uncle instead. Thankfully, they didn’t take any bets in my presence.

The more family visitors I had, the easier my contractions became. The funny family input was never-ending, and my entire changing body was soaking it up. At one point, my brother even started a massage-train with me at the head. I breathed, stretched, talked and –most of all- laughed my way through the pain.

The only time I got overwhelmed with the added family eyes was when Grandma was around. Considering her own sedated and erased labors, she was bewildered about my pain and, in her usual tender ever-loving grandmotherly way, wanted to help.

“Honey, you’re sick. Why are you standing up while we’re all sitting?” she begged.

“Oh, I dunno Grandma” I wanted to respond, “Maybe because I have an eight pound human-being making its way through my birth canal!”

Of course, the generational gap would never allow my grandmother to understand I had spent nine months preparing to breathe through my dream birth: a drug free experience attended by midwives in a birthing center with plush queen size beds and bathtubs.

With the help of my mother, who had birthed seven of us without one drug, my Grandmother started to get the idea that I was not “sick” but actually effectively managing the essential pain that would produce my much anticipated newborn child.

Twenty hours later, my labor was speeding up, but was ironically not as riveting to my family. Everyone slowly shuffled out of the room and wished me their best. I thanked them for already making my birth so memorable and told them they’d hear the good news soon.

As painful contractions now demanded my full focus, my husband and I began our dramatic escape to the birthing center, with parents and sisters in tow. After the most agonizing drive of my life, in which I cursed every red light and yelled bloody murder at the traffic, we pulled up to the birthing center. My husband and I felt both calm and excited to finally be where our baby would meet the world.

Or so we thought.

Now stretching into the second day of my labor, nothing was happening. No matter what technique I tried (nor how many hours I walked around the block), my body was not expanding. My dream to birth naturally with little intervention and just the wise help of my motherly midwives was fading. I was falling prey to the number one reason they transferred laboring women to the hospital: failure to progress.

Fearing the risk of dehydrating the baby, I was relocated to the nearest hospital, admitted into a birthing room, hooked up to an I.V., administered Pitocin and given an Epidural. Although it was everything that I had worked against during my pregnancy, I was more concerned with my baby’s health and, after the past 35 hours of labor, I had no energy left to tackle the pain drug free.

My sisters, having just undergone a draining night of emotionally and physically supporting my hundreds of contractions, went to rest while my husband, parents and doula kept me company. They would be called when things kicked up again. My husband and I were assured we would soon be holding our baby. My mother was elated that she would soon meet her granddaughter.

A short few hours later, I was fully dilated and felt the urge to push. My mother went to the hall to phone my sisters. I heard her say excitedly, “Girls, you want to see a baby born? Get over here!” Not a long time thereafter, I am effectively pushing with my mother, two sisters, doula and midwife holding my legs. The moment was imminent.

When the head crowned, the emotional cheering rang out. My midwife encouraged me: “Good job! You’re almost there!” My husband got my eye contact: “Mimi, you’re doing amazing. We’re going to see the baby!” My sister reported what she saw: “He has red hair!” I looked at all the faces around me, happy tears streaming down their faces. If I would ever feel lonely in my life, I would remember this moment - my family’s feminine energies holding me with the strength and love of a million mothers.
With one final valiant push, my son entered the world. “It’s a booooy!” my husband exclaimed through his tears. My mother quickly got over the shock of her first grandchild not being a girl and hugged and kissed me relentlessly. My sisters were sobbing. I held my squirmy, slimy and bloody son and couldn’t stop saying, “Oh my G-d, he’s beautiful.”

And he truly was. As my newborn son took his first deep cry, I wiped tears of genuine joy, accomplishment and gratitude.

My birth was truly a shared experience. The day after, when family visited me and the baby, we all reminisced about the crowded hotel room, the massage-train and my exuberant birth in the hospital. The nurses later told me that patients who heard the emotional sounds coming from my hospital room found themselves crying too. And apparently, my family had totally violated the hospital’s rule about the amount of family members allowed inside, but none of the nurses or doctors had the heart to enforce it.

Soon after, I spoke to my grandmother. “Oh, honey,” she was still harping, “You were in so much pain.” I assured her by sharing how I had never had such an empowering, encouraging, love-filled and spirited experience.

In the end, my birth was far more inspiring and memorable than the quick, quiet and natural experience I had planned. I labored for nearly forty hours, in three different places, in front of over thirty people and ended up being part of the one percent of mothers who give birth on their due date. The journey ended with more than a healthy baby in my arms; it awakened in me a profound admiration for my family, a deeper belief in my internal strength and the wisdom to always expect the unexpected.